


darkness, daylight, sunlight

by grumkin_snark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Married Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 04:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: Lyanna is trapped in a marriage of abuse with no end in sight. Queen Elia decides to take matters into her own hands.





	darkness, daylight, sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on Tumblr [asked](https://samwpmarleau.tumblr.com/post/177128010774/queen-elia-helping-lyanna-escape-her-abusive): Queen Elia helping Lyanna escape her abusive marriage to Robert by making her one of her ladies in waiting (Elia has another baby girl, Rhaegar is dead or gets a clue waves jazz hands). Just ladies helping ladies.

She’d only met Lady Lyanna briefly those years ago at Harrenhal, but even that short amount of time was enough to tell her the girl had gumption. Learning that she was the mystery knight had only intensified that assessment. It had taken a while to displace her anger at the humiliation the girl had inadvertently wrought, for it was far easier to resent her than it was her husband with whom she would have to live for the rest of her days.

But displace it she had, thanks to time and Rhaegar’s increasing neglect. Not that she had ever loved him, but being in such a giant holdfast as Maegor’s with a spouse who is light on conversation makes for lonely days.

Last time she’d seen Lyanna, she’d emanated freedom.

The girl in front of her now bears little resemblance.

They are guests at Riverrun for the tourney Lord Hoster put together to honor the birth of his first grandson, and Lord and Lady Baratheon had appropriately accepted the invitation. Lyanna only gives her a proper greeting and curtsey when she arrives, the only response uninspired politeness. Perhaps, Elia thinks at the time, she’s afflicted with a fever.

That evening, she wanders through the halls to Lyanna’s chambers with a pot of tea and knocks upon her door. Lyanna is plainly taken aback at her arrival, but nevertheless, she lets Elia inside. Not that she could precisely refuse.

What Elia does notice, other than the confusion, is that she quickly pulls down the sleeves of her dressing gown.

“Are you ill, my lady?” Elia asks, pouring them both a cup. Lyanna doesn’t touch it. “You seem withdrawn.”

“No, Your Grace, I am not ill.”

Elia’s concern only deepens. “With child, perhaps? It is a common thing to feel poorly.”

“No, I am not with child,” Lyanna says. Under her breath, she adds, “Gods willing.”

It is her last statement that has Elia raising an eyebrow. “I shan’t tell your lord husband, if that is your worry,” she says. “We all have secrets. Will you tell me yours? It is clear you have one.”

Lyanna doesn’t reply, but she does compulsively tug at her sleeves again, and Elia gently reaches out to grasp her arm. Lyanna struggles only slightly as Elia pushes up the sleeve. Her chest constricts with pity, and rage, when she sees the bracelet of bruises on the girl’s wrist.

“A riding accident,” Lyanna says, in as rehearsed a tone as Elia’s ever heard. “’Tis nothing, Your Grace, truly.”

“My brother has spent a lifetime ahorse, and yet in all that time, I have never seen such a wound. A fall could not cause these.”

Lyanna merely looks up at her, haunted. It all falls horrifically into place. The girl’s quietude, the bruises, all of it. Rhaegar had never struck her, but she’s seen a man’s wrath. She’s seen it in the years she tended to her good-mother’s wounds and daubed on paints to cover it for court. She’d seen the defeat, and the strength beneath it.

“It’s Lord Robert, isn’t it?”

It’s not a question.

Lyanna shakes her head. “No, of course not. You mustn’t say such things, my queen.”

“How long? How long have you suffered so?” Lyanna shakes her head again and opens her mouth to proclaim another denial, but Elia cuts her off. “It must have taken years to break you down. Robert Baratheon does not seem a man to indulge wit or independence from a wife, and you had plenty of that last I saw.”

“I love my husband, Your Grace.”

“As I love mine, no doubt,” says Elia dryly. “Have you not told your brothers of this? That quiet one, Lord Eddard, he seems a fine sort. He’d believe you, wouldn’t he?”

“Ned has no sway,” says Lyanna, pulling her hands from Elia’s grasp. “I’ve said too much.”

 _You haven’t said anything_ , Elia thinks.

She hasn’t, not a true admission, but Elia’s seen the bruises and she sees the pain in the girl’s stormy eyes. She wonders quite how  _long_ she’s endured the abuse. She wonders quite how many bruises are hidden even further out of sight, glimpsed only by Lyanna herself.

Surely she would have fought back in the beginning,  _surely_. But beating a trio of squires at a joust is no match for a war hammer-wielding mountain of a man. She had borne him three children, but all had been girls; like as not, Robert lay the blame wholly at her feet.

“He will not lay another finger on you,” says Elia. “You have my word on that.” She doesn’t know how yet, she doesn’t know when, but she’d be no queen, no decent  _woman_ , if she let this pass, if she turned a blind eye to someone’s misery. “Rest well tonight, dear girl. Tomorrow is a new day.”

* * *

The answer comes to her the following morning, when only Ashara comes to her room to help her dress, Lady Nymella nowhere to be found.

“Where is Nym?” she asks. Her ladies-in-waiting are a formality when she’s healthy, but nevertheless, the woman had historically been first into the room.

“Vomiting her stomach out, poor thing,” says Ashara as she sets to work detangling Elia’s hair.

“Still? She’s four moons along, I had hoped the babe would give her a rest.”

“It seems not,” replies Ashara. “Though I suppose we shouldn’t expect anything less from the house who sent their fool instead of a warrior and changed their sigil purely to incite the Conqueror’s ire.”

“Yes, true enough. She refused the last time I offered, but I may have to insist she spend the rest of her pregnancy back home. The Dornish air would do her good.”

“Ah, but then you’ll be one lady short. However will you manage?”

Elia swats her, then freezes. “Ash, you’re a  _genius_.”

* * *

Robert Baratheon is slow to answer her summons; from the look of him, he’d just awakened and is recovering from a hearty night of drinking. Nevertheless, he manages to remember some modicum of respect, giving her a short bow. She sits calmly on the settee, legs crossed at the ankle.

“You asked for me?” He sounds groggy, but she suspects he’s in for a rather sudden awakening.

“I did. I wish to discuss a rather important matter with you.” She doesn’t so much mean  _discuss_  as  _inform_ , but in this, she figures excess pleasantry can’t hurt. Even if the memory of what he’d done to his wife makes her grit her teeth.

“What matter would that be?”

She straightens her shoulders. “Lord Robert, I would like to take your wife for one of my ladies-in-waiting. There is no Northern presence at court, and I think Lyanna could lend a unique perspective.”

Robert looks much like she’s presented him with a particularly difficult puzzle. “She’s Lady of the Stormlands.”

“As Alerie Hightower is Lady of the Reach and Nymella Toland is Lady of Ghost Hill,” Elia says. “As my mother was the Princess of Dorne while also being the dowager queen’s lady-in-waiting for a time. You needn’t worry, I’ll take good care of her.” She gives him her most serene smile. “You would of course be welcome to visit, my lord.”

“She’s needed at Storm’s End,” Robert objects. As she’d expected, sobriety is swiftly upon him. “She is my wife. Her whereabouts are mine to oversee.”

Elia rises to her feet. She is almost comically shorter than Robert, but she can channel Oberyn when she wants to, can channel her  _mother_ , and she’d worn her most ostentatious crown for this very occasion.

“I do not wish to command,” she says sharply, “but I hope I need not remind you that I am your  _queen_ , and I may choose my ladies as I like. Or do you presume to suggest you rank above me?”

Robert’s face reddens with irritation, irritation he perhaps would act upon if she were a common man-at-arms, but which even he dare not act upon with her. “I presume no such thing,” he says, after much effort, “but—”

“Excellent. Then she shall accompany me back to King’s Landing and I’ll send for her things.” She can’t help adding, “Your children are welcome to be sent along as well, though I’m sure you’d like for your eldest to remain behind. She is after all your heir, is she not?”

“She is,” he grinds out. “I’ll speak with Lya about this business.”

“Oh, no need,” she replies. “Ashara is already on her way to do so as we speak. I thank you for your generosity.”

Robert looks very much as though he’d like to curse her to all seven hells, but even the mightiest of storms surrender to the sun in the end. “Yes, Your Grace.”

* * *

Given the expression on Lyanna’s face later that afternoon, it’s quite plain to Elia that Ashara had successfully delivered her message. The girl doesn’t even cringe when Robert aggressively kisses her goodbye; she merely says what he wants to hear and falls in with Elia’s retinue. There is some trepidation amongst the glee, and yet the transformation from the skittish woman she’d seen last night is night and day.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she says, once Robert has left. “However did you convince him?”

“I’m the queen, Lady Lyanna. I am wife to the king of the realm and mother to the next. My mother’s daughter, too, or so my uncle keeps telling me. I grew up seeing her cow braver men than Robert Baratheon, I daresay I retained some of her strategy.” Lyanna smiles and heads towards the carriage, but Elia stops her. “I hear you have an affinity for riding. I myself would like to take the air for as long as I am able. Have you sat astride a sand steed before?”

“I’ve seen them, but never ridden, no.” She enviously surveys the horses that whinny in impatience nearby.

“Then you are in for a treat.” Elia leads her by the elbow to the herd and gestures to the lot. “Pick one.”

Lyanna ultimately settles on a temperamental gray mare who has a reputation of biting any man who comes too close, while Elia mounts the palomino she’s had since childhood. The procession is slow until they get onto the kingsroad and the path opens up wider.

Lyanna looks over at her with a glint in her eye. “May I?”

“By all means.”

A quick dig of Lyanna’s heels and the mare takes off into a gallop, kicking up dust beneath her hooves. Elia can spot her a bit uneasy in the saddle at first, unfamiliar with the Dornish breed’s exuberance, but she adjusts before long and quickly vanishes from view.

Oberyn rides up beside her in Lyanna’s place and reaches over to playfully nudge her shoulder. “You’ve done a good thing.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” It’s something that’s been plaguing her. Her good-mother has the strongest soul of anyone Elia’s ever known and had conquered her past, but she’s also seen the harrowing nightmares that remain, the way sometimes she flinches at raised voices.

But Oberyn simply laughs. “Of that, sweet sister, I have no doubt.”


End file.
